Broken play, p.21
Broken Play, page 21
Gone.
Not in the exit corridor.
Not in the concourse.
Not picked up on any auxiliary camera.
“Where is he?” Finn asks, tension bleeding into his voice.
“We’ve checked all major exit points,” Santos says. “He didn’t use the main, staff, or disabled assist exits.”
“That’s not possible,” Finn snaps.
“It is,” I say quietly. “If he moved before the horn.”
Santos nods. “He disappeared from the section twenty-two seconds before the period ended.”
Atlas crosses his arms, muscles ticking like a countdown. “So either he was never physically there and we caught a shadow of someone else—”
“Or he knew the blind spots,” I finish.
Both ops agents glance at each other. Leung clears her throat. “Captain, someone familiar with standard arena design could predict which cameras lag a frame under certain lighting conditions. Or knew that the concourse camera near 118 was half-obstructed by a vendor banner until we fixed it last month.”
Someone with planning.
Someone persuasive.
Someone with patience.
Someone like Adrian Frost.
I say his name silently. Never out loud. Not yet.
“Run it again,” I say.
We watch the clip four more times. My eyes burn each time the man turns toward the bench. Each time he stands still while thousands around him move. Each time he vanishes without a trace.
Finn breaks the silence. “We tell her.”
“Not yet,” I say.
Atlas turns his head sharply. “Why not?”
“She slept last night,” I say. “For the first time in weeks. If we tell her now—before we confirm anything concrete—we give her fear instead of facts.”
Atlas narrows his eyes. “She’s not fragile.”
“I didn’t say she was,” I reply steadily. “I said she deserves precision. Not guesses.”
Finn exhales, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Yeah. Precision.”
Santos closes the laptop. “We’ll keep digging on the back end. Run facial approximations and pattern movement.”
“Good.” I stand. “Flag anything unusual. Anything.”
As we step into the hallway, Finn rounds on me. “We’re telling her today, right?”
“Yes.”
Atlas stops. “After practice?”
“After footage review,” I say. “With all three of us there.”
They both accept that. Finn touches a locker as we pass, like he needs something solid under his palm before he cracks apart. Atlas walks like a storm trying not to break.
At the end of the hall, I stop.
“Listen to me,” I say quietly.
Both turn.
“This isn’t guesswork anymore. Someone watched her. Someone left when he knew the crowd would cover it. Someone understands cameras and blind spots.”
They both go still.
“So we tighten our lines,” I continue. “We move around her with intention. We keep eyes on exits. We rotate who walks her to the car. We don’t let her go home alone tonight.”
Finn nods. “Obviously.”
Atlas’s voice is a low vibration. “She comes home with us.”
I glance his way.
“Not Kael’s house,” he clarifies. “Ours. Wherever she chooses.”
Finn exhales like he’d been holding that suggestion back.
I nod. “Yes.”
Atlas looks relieved in the smallest, sharpest way—like he just won a battle against himself.
We return to the main corridor. Players mill around. Trainers sharpen skates. The smell of sweat and rubber fills the air.
Wren is at the cart, taping a player’s wrist. Her focus is steady. Her shoulders are down. The panic hasn’t crept back in yet.
Atlas slows. Finn’s breath stumbles.
I walk toward her first.
She glances up, and I watch the moment she relaxes because she sees us. The way her face softens. The way her breath deepens. The way her hands stop trembling.
“Practice went well,” she says.
“It did,” I answer. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “A little.”
Finn brightens instantly. “Perfect. Let’s get lunch.”
Atlas murmurs, “I’ll drive.”
She looks between us—and for the first time, I see wonder instead of hesitation.
I imagine telling her what we found.
I imagine how her face will fall.
I imagine the fear crawling back up her spine.
Not yet.
Not until I can give her something besides shadows.
My phone buzzes again.
OPS: FACE PARTIAL MATCH FOUND. POSSIBLE SUBJECT ID.
My blood runs cold.
Later.
Tell her later.
With all of us there.
“Let’s go,” I say softly.
She nods.
And we move as one.
Chapter 43: Wren
Kael approaches me with Finn and Atlas flanking him like a three-man wall, and instantly every nerve in my body tries to tell me something’s off.
Not dangerous.
Not panic-worthy.
Just... wrong.
Too quiet.
Too controlled.
Too intentional.
Kael stops a few feet from the trainer’s cart and says, “You hungry?”
Not hello.
Not you okay?
Not ready for lunch?
Just: you hungry.
I blink at him. “A little.”
Before I can ask anything else, Finn swoops in. “Perfect. We’re taking you to lunch.”
He says it too cheerfully.
Atlas nods once, already shepherding me toward the tunnel. “My car’s closest.”
Kael’s eyes flick to me, searching. Not for permission. For stability. For whether I’m about to fall apart or hold steady. When he finds the answer—steady enough—he nods once.
“We’ll talk after,” he says.
Three words that feel like someone placing a weight on the table and sliding it toward me.
Something’s happened.
I knew something was coming the second Kael’s phone buzzed on the ice and he didn’t open it. But he’s good at hiding strain. Too good. Finn? Not so much—he’s vibrating like a shaken soda can. Atlas looks like his jaw might crack from clenching.
But me?
I take a breath. Pick up my coat. Lock the cart.
And walk with them.
***
On the walk to the parking lot, Kael stays a half-step ahead, scanning every doorway and hallway like he’s mapping threats. Finn keeps brushing the back of my hand like he keeps forgetting he’s touching me and then remembers and does it again. Atlas stays behind us, not talking, just there.
They sandwich me between them from locker room to exit.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t about lunch at all.
Atlas unlocks his SUV with one tap, holding the passenger door open like he’s done it a thousand times. Kael waits until I’m seated before closing it. Finn climbs in beside me and buckles up without breaking eye contact.
“You like Italian?” he asks suddenly, too bright.
“I—yeah?”
“Good. Because we’re getting Italian.” His smile is big enough to be suspicious.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Finn says too fast.
Atlas starts the car. Kael twists in the passenger seat to look at me. “We’ll talk after we eat.”
There it is again: after.
I swallow and nod, even though my skin prickles with dread.
Fine. Lunch first. Heavy second.
I don’t know if that’s kindness or torture, but I take the gift of time anyway.
***
The restaurant Finn brings us to is warm and bustling, the air thick with garlic and herbs and fresh bread. A place that smells like normal life, like families celebrating nothing special, like first dates and weekday lunches.
The kind of place I haven’t let myself sit in for too long.
Kael chooses a corner booth against the far wall. He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t need to. From there he can see the door, the kitchen entrance, the bathroom hall, and the street.
Atlas sits next to him. Finn and I slide into the opposite side, but Finn sits so close our thighs touch. I don’t pull away.
A server drops menus and water glasses. Finn immediately hides behind his, asking random questions like he’s auditioning for the role of Human Distraction.
“Do you like gnocchi? You look like a gnocchi girl. Or maybe penne? People who like penne usually like order and structure—are you a structure person, Wren?”
I arch a brow. “Are you... okay?”
He straightens his posture. “I’m perfect.”
Atlas mutters, “You’re loud.”
Finn whispers, “I’m coping.”
Kael doesn’t look up from the menu. “Quiet coping.”
Finn mutters something that definitely includes a curse.
I laugh despite myself.
And that’s when their shoulders all drop a fraction.
Because they’re trying to keep me breathing.
Trying to fill the space with brightness before they drop the truth.
Trying to hold me together just a little longer.
God.
I try to focus on the menu. The words blur a bit. My appetite evaporates and returns in waves. I pretend not to notice the way Kael watches my hands, how Atlas notices me gripping my water glass too tightly, how Finn nudges my knee every few seconds to check I’m still present.
The server returns. I order something I don’t remember seeing on the menu. Finn orders two things. Atlas says, “Same,” and Kael requests his food with military precision.
As soon as the server leaves, Finn leans forward dramatically.
“So! Let’s talk about literally anything else. Favorite movies. Weirdest childhood injuries. Strange facts. Wren, go.”
I blink. “Um...”
Atlas rests his arm along the back of the booth behind Kael, posture deceptively relaxed. “You don’t have to humor him.”
Finn gasps. “Humor me. Please humor me.”
I smile a little. “Weird childhood injury... I once stapled my finger trying to use a mini stapler as a hole punch.”
Finn slaps both hands on the table. “WHAT?!”
Even Kael looks up from his water glass.
Atlas’s mouth twitches, the closest he ever gets to laughing. “How.”
“I was eight,” I say defensively. “And unsupervised.”
Finn shakes his head. “Absolutely unacceptable. We need surveillance on you at all times.”
Kael deadpans, “We are not installing cameras in her apartment.”
Atlas adds, “Or bathroom.”
Finn sighs dramatically. “Way to kill the vibe, guys.”
But he smiles at me. And I smile back. And something soft fills the space between us again.
Our food arrives, steaming and rich. Bread baskets piled high. Pasta delivered to the table like it’s a peace offering.
I take one bite and nearly melt. “Oh my god.”
Finn beams, victorious. “See? Best Italian in the city.”
Atlas digs into his plate like he hasn’t eaten in three days. Kael eats slower, deliberate, still scanning the room between bites.
For half an hour, it almost feels normal.
Warm.
Soft.
Steady.
I let them talk about everything and nothing. Finn tells a story about a rookie who got his skate lace stuck in the Gatorade crate once. Atlas calls him a liar; Finn produces photographic evidence. Kael mutters, “You’re all idiots,” but his lips curve when he thinks no one is looking.
And then—
The moment shifts.
Kael checks the time.
Atlas notices.
Finn’s knee bumps mine again—but this time, he doesn’t smile.
I set my fork down. “Okay,” I say softly. “I’m ready.”
The table goes still.
Finn’s fingers tighten around his water glass. Atlas’s shoulders lock. Kael exhales the smallest breath, as if he’s been bracing the whole meal.
He nods once.
“Let’s go back to the rink.”
My heart thumps against my ribs, but I nod too.
Lunch was the last warm breath before the cold.
The last softness before the truth.
And I know—deep in my bones—that whatever Kael has to show me is going to shift the ground under all of us.
Chapter 44: Kael
We walk Wren back into the rink after lunch—not because we need to be here, but because it’s the one place I know we can lock a door behind us, close blinds, and speak without someone walking in.
Finn holds the door for her. Atlas hovers a step behind, ready to catch her if her knees give out. I walk ahead, clearing the path.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going.
She doesn’t ask what’s coming.
She just follows quietly, like she already knows the gravity waiting for her on the other side of the conversation.
We take the small conference room off the trainer’s wing again. Finn shuts the door. Atlas flips the lock. I pull the blinds.
Wren stands there in the middle of the room with her coat still half-on, breathing just a little too fast. Not panicked. But bracing.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for a blow she’s already halfway prepared to take.
I hate that look.
“Sit,” I say gently.
She does, pulling her coat off her shoulders and setting it on the chair beside her. Finn drops to the seat next to her, knee almost touching hers. Atlas stays standing, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched in a way that says he’s barely holding himself in place.
I sit across from her and set my phone on the table.
“Wren,” I say quietly. “Before I show you anything, I want to be clear about something.”
Her fingers twist together in her lap. “Okay.”
“You’re safe in this room.”
Atlas murmurs, “Anywhere with us.”
Finn nods. “Seriously. Whatever it is, you’re not handling it by yourself.”
She swallows, throat working.
I unlock my phone. The screen brightens the table. Wren flinches slightly at the shift of light, like her body already knows what it’s going to see.
I don’t turn it toward her yet.
I watch her eyes.
“What I’m about to show you isn’t meant to scare you,” I say. “It’s meant to inform you. To give you the truth, not shadows.”
Wren’s breath trembles. Not enough to be visible. Enough that all three of us hear it.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I rotate the screen.
The still image fills the room.
A man in a dark coat.
Standing in Section 118.
Facing the bench.
Still as carved stone.
Wren’s hand flies to her mouth.
She stares. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
I can’t tell if she’s remembering something or recognizing it. But the color drains from her face in a way that makes every instinct in me surge forward.
Finn reaches for her hand instantly.
Atlas steps forward like he’s about to tear the table in half.
I move the phone back slightly—not hiding it, but giving her a breath of space.
“It’s not confirmed,” I say softly. “Ops ran gait mapping, height comparison, movement analysis. It’s not enough for a full ID.”
She finally blinks. “But... it’s him.”
Her voice—raw, thin—unravels something under my sternum.
“Wren,” I say. “It’s a partial match.”
She shakes her head once, small. “I know how he stands. I know how he watches.”
Finn curses under his breath. Atlas’s jaw ticks hard enough I hear the grind of his teeth.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, leveling my voice.
“I need you to hear everything I’m about to say.”
She turns her eyes to me—wet, terrified, determined.
“First,” I say, “you did nothing wrong.”
Her breath stutters.
“Second,” I continue, steady, controlled, “this doesn’t mean he’s gotten close. This doesn’t mean he’s found your address. It only means he might have been at the game. It’s one sighting in a packed arena.”
Finn squeezes her hand. “And we’re not letting him get any closer.”
Atlas moves to her other side. “He won’t touch you.”
Her eyes flick to him, then to Finn, then back to me.
“What do we do?” she asks, voice trembling.
“We tighten everything,” I say. “Security. Movement. Routine. You won’t walk anywhere alone—not to your car, not into the rink, not to your building.”
She swallows. “Last night I slept. And now—”
“And now you will again,” I say, firm enough that she looks up fast.
Her eyes shine.
“We’re adjusting,” I add. “Not retreating.”
Atlas nods once. “He wants you scared. Don’t give him that.”
Finn’s knee bumps hers softly. “We’re here. All of us.”
Wren’s throat closes for a moment. She presses a hand to her sternum, breathing carefully, like she’s not sure if the air is allowed to stay in her lungs.
“I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate that he’s still—”
“You’re allowed to hate it,” I say quietly. “You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling right now.”
Her eyes fill. She wipes at one with the back of her hand, embarrassed.
“Don’t,” Atlas murmurs, kneeling beside her. “Don’t hide that.”
Finn’s voice is soft. “Let us help.”
Her voice breaks. “I don’t want you in danger.”
This time, all three of us respond at once.
Finn: “We don’t care.”
Atlas: “He’s not a threat to us.”
Me: “You’re our priority.”
Wren lets out a sound—half-sob, half-breath—and tries to cover her face with her hands.
Not in the exit corridor.
Not in the concourse.
Not picked up on any auxiliary camera.
“Where is he?” Finn asks, tension bleeding into his voice.
“We’ve checked all major exit points,” Santos says. “He didn’t use the main, staff, or disabled assist exits.”
“That’s not possible,” Finn snaps.
“It is,” I say quietly. “If he moved before the horn.”
Santos nods. “He disappeared from the section twenty-two seconds before the period ended.”
Atlas crosses his arms, muscles ticking like a countdown. “So either he was never physically there and we caught a shadow of someone else—”
“Or he knew the blind spots,” I finish.
Both ops agents glance at each other. Leung clears her throat. “Captain, someone familiar with standard arena design could predict which cameras lag a frame under certain lighting conditions. Or knew that the concourse camera near 118 was half-obstructed by a vendor banner until we fixed it last month.”
Someone with planning.
Someone persuasive.
Someone with patience.
Someone like Adrian Frost.
I say his name silently. Never out loud. Not yet.
“Run it again,” I say.
We watch the clip four more times. My eyes burn each time the man turns toward the bench. Each time he stands still while thousands around him move. Each time he vanishes without a trace.
Finn breaks the silence. “We tell her.”
“Not yet,” I say.
Atlas turns his head sharply. “Why not?”
“She slept last night,” I say. “For the first time in weeks. If we tell her now—before we confirm anything concrete—we give her fear instead of facts.”
Atlas narrows his eyes. “She’s not fragile.”
“I didn’t say she was,” I reply steadily. “I said she deserves precision. Not guesses.”
Finn exhales, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Yeah. Precision.”
Santos closes the laptop. “We’ll keep digging on the back end. Run facial approximations and pattern movement.”
“Good.” I stand. “Flag anything unusual. Anything.”
As we step into the hallway, Finn rounds on me. “We’re telling her today, right?”
“Yes.”
Atlas stops. “After practice?”
“After footage review,” I say. “With all three of us there.”
They both accept that. Finn touches a locker as we pass, like he needs something solid under his palm before he cracks apart. Atlas walks like a storm trying not to break.
At the end of the hall, I stop.
“Listen to me,” I say quietly.
Both turn.
“This isn’t guesswork anymore. Someone watched her. Someone left when he knew the crowd would cover it. Someone understands cameras and blind spots.”
They both go still.
“So we tighten our lines,” I continue. “We move around her with intention. We keep eyes on exits. We rotate who walks her to the car. We don’t let her go home alone tonight.”
Finn nods. “Obviously.”
Atlas’s voice is a low vibration. “She comes home with us.”
I glance his way.
“Not Kael’s house,” he clarifies. “Ours. Wherever she chooses.”
Finn exhales like he’d been holding that suggestion back.
I nod. “Yes.”
Atlas looks relieved in the smallest, sharpest way—like he just won a battle against himself.
We return to the main corridor. Players mill around. Trainers sharpen skates. The smell of sweat and rubber fills the air.
Wren is at the cart, taping a player’s wrist. Her focus is steady. Her shoulders are down. The panic hasn’t crept back in yet.
Atlas slows. Finn’s breath stumbles.
I walk toward her first.
She glances up, and I watch the moment she relaxes because she sees us. The way her face softens. The way her breath deepens. The way her hands stop trembling.
“Practice went well,” she says.
“It did,” I answer. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “A little.”
Finn brightens instantly. “Perfect. Let’s get lunch.”
Atlas murmurs, “I’ll drive.”
She looks between us—and for the first time, I see wonder instead of hesitation.
I imagine telling her what we found.
I imagine how her face will fall.
I imagine the fear crawling back up her spine.
Not yet.
Not until I can give her something besides shadows.
My phone buzzes again.
OPS: FACE PARTIAL MATCH FOUND. POSSIBLE SUBJECT ID.
My blood runs cold.
Later.
Tell her later.
With all of us there.
“Let’s go,” I say softly.
She nods.
And we move as one.
Chapter 43: Wren
Kael approaches me with Finn and Atlas flanking him like a three-man wall, and instantly every nerve in my body tries to tell me something’s off.
Not dangerous.
Not panic-worthy.
Just... wrong.
Too quiet.
Too controlled.
Too intentional.
Kael stops a few feet from the trainer’s cart and says, “You hungry?”
Not hello.
Not you okay?
Not ready for lunch?
Just: you hungry.
I blink at him. “A little.”
Before I can ask anything else, Finn swoops in. “Perfect. We’re taking you to lunch.”
He says it too cheerfully.
Atlas nods once, already shepherding me toward the tunnel. “My car’s closest.”
Kael’s eyes flick to me, searching. Not for permission. For stability. For whether I’m about to fall apart or hold steady. When he finds the answer—steady enough—he nods once.
“We’ll talk after,” he says.
Three words that feel like someone placing a weight on the table and sliding it toward me.
Something’s happened.
I knew something was coming the second Kael’s phone buzzed on the ice and he didn’t open it. But he’s good at hiding strain. Too good. Finn? Not so much—he’s vibrating like a shaken soda can. Atlas looks like his jaw might crack from clenching.
But me?
I take a breath. Pick up my coat. Lock the cart.
And walk with them.
***
On the walk to the parking lot, Kael stays a half-step ahead, scanning every doorway and hallway like he’s mapping threats. Finn keeps brushing the back of my hand like he keeps forgetting he’s touching me and then remembers and does it again. Atlas stays behind us, not talking, just there.
They sandwich me between them from locker room to exit.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t about lunch at all.
Atlas unlocks his SUV with one tap, holding the passenger door open like he’s done it a thousand times. Kael waits until I’m seated before closing it. Finn climbs in beside me and buckles up without breaking eye contact.
“You like Italian?” he asks suddenly, too bright.
“I—yeah?”
“Good. Because we’re getting Italian.” His smile is big enough to be suspicious.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Finn says too fast.
Atlas starts the car. Kael twists in the passenger seat to look at me. “We’ll talk after we eat.”
There it is again: after.
I swallow and nod, even though my skin prickles with dread.
Fine. Lunch first. Heavy second.
I don’t know if that’s kindness or torture, but I take the gift of time anyway.
***
The restaurant Finn brings us to is warm and bustling, the air thick with garlic and herbs and fresh bread. A place that smells like normal life, like families celebrating nothing special, like first dates and weekday lunches.
The kind of place I haven’t let myself sit in for too long.
Kael chooses a corner booth against the far wall. He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t need to. From there he can see the door, the kitchen entrance, the bathroom hall, and the street.
Atlas sits next to him. Finn and I slide into the opposite side, but Finn sits so close our thighs touch. I don’t pull away.
A server drops menus and water glasses. Finn immediately hides behind his, asking random questions like he’s auditioning for the role of Human Distraction.
“Do you like gnocchi? You look like a gnocchi girl. Or maybe penne? People who like penne usually like order and structure—are you a structure person, Wren?”
I arch a brow. “Are you... okay?”
He straightens his posture. “I’m perfect.”
Atlas mutters, “You’re loud.”
Finn whispers, “I’m coping.”
Kael doesn’t look up from the menu. “Quiet coping.”
Finn mutters something that definitely includes a curse.
I laugh despite myself.
And that’s when their shoulders all drop a fraction.
Because they’re trying to keep me breathing.
Trying to fill the space with brightness before they drop the truth.
Trying to hold me together just a little longer.
God.
I try to focus on the menu. The words blur a bit. My appetite evaporates and returns in waves. I pretend not to notice the way Kael watches my hands, how Atlas notices me gripping my water glass too tightly, how Finn nudges my knee every few seconds to check I’m still present.
The server returns. I order something I don’t remember seeing on the menu. Finn orders two things. Atlas says, “Same,” and Kael requests his food with military precision.
As soon as the server leaves, Finn leans forward dramatically.
“So! Let’s talk about literally anything else. Favorite movies. Weirdest childhood injuries. Strange facts. Wren, go.”
I blink. “Um...”
Atlas rests his arm along the back of the booth behind Kael, posture deceptively relaxed. “You don’t have to humor him.”
Finn gasps. “Humor me. Please humor me.”
I smile a little. “Weird childhood injury... I once stapled my finger trying to use a mini stapler as a hole punch.”
Finn slaps both hands on the table. “WHAT?!”
Even Kael looks up from his water glass.
Atlas’s mouth twitches, the closest he ever gets to laughing. “How.”
“I was eight,” I say defensively. “And unsupervised.”
Finn shakes his head. “Absolutely unacceptable. We need surveillance on you at all times.”
Kael deadpans, “We are not installing cameras in her apartment.”
Atlas adds, “Or bathroom.”
Finn sighs dramatically. “Way to kill the vibe, guys.”
But he smiles at me. And I smile back. And something soft fills the space between us again.
Our food arrives, steaming and rich. Bread baskets piled high. Pasta delivered to the table like it’s a peace offering.
I take one bite and nearly melt. “Oh my god.”
Finn beams, victorious. “See? Best Italian in the city.”
Atlas digs into his plate like he hasn’t eaten in three days. Kael eats slower, deliberate, still scanning the room between bites.
For half an hour, it almost feels normal.
Warm.
Soft.
Steady.
I let them talk about everything and nothing. Finn tells a story about a rookie who got his skate lace stuck in the Gatorade crate once. Atlas calls him a liar; Finn produces photographic evidence. Kael mutters, “You’re all idiots,” but his lips curve when he thinks no one is looking.
And then—
The moment shifts.
Kael checks the time.
Atlas notices.
Finn’s knee bumps mine again—but this time, he doesn’t smile.
I set my fork down. “Okay,” I say softly. “I’m ready.”
The table goes still.
Finn’s fingers tighten around his water glass. Atlas’s shoulders lock. Kael exhales the smallest breath, as if he’s been bracing the whole meal.
He nods once.
“Let’s go back to the rink.”
My heart thumps against my ribs, but I nod too.
Lunch was the last warm breath before the cold.
The last softness before the truth.
And I know—deep in my bones—that whatever Kael has to show me is going to shift the ground under all of us.
Chapter 44: Kael
We walk Wren back into the rink after lunch—not because we need to be here, but because it’s the one place I know we can lock a door behind us, close blinds, and speak without someone walking in.
Finn holds the door for her. Atlas hovers a step behind, ready to catch her if her knees give out. I walk ahead, clearing the path.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going.
She doesn’t ask what’s coming.
She just follows quietly, like she already knows the gravity waiting for her on the other side of the conversation.
We take the small conference room off the trainer’s wing again. Finn shuts the door. Atlas flips the lock. I pull the blinds.
Wren stands there in the middle of the room with her coat still half-on, breathing just a little too fast. Not panicked. But bracing.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for a blow she’s already halfway prepared to take.
I hate that look.
“Sit,” I say gently.
She does, pulling her coat off her shoulders and setting it on the chair beside her. Finn drops to the seat next to her, knee almost touching hers. Atlas stays standing, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched in a way that says he’s barely holding himself in place.
I sit across from her and set my phone on the table.
“Wren,” I say quietly. “Before I show you anything, I want to be clear about something.”
Her fingers twist together in her lap. “Okay.”
“You’re safe in this room.”
Atlas murmurs, “Anywhere with us.”
Finn nods. “Seriously. Whatever it is, you’re not handling it by yourself.”
She swallows, throat working.
I unlock my phone. The screen brightens the table. Wren flinches slightly at the shift of light, like her body already knows what it’s going to see.
I don’t turn it toward her yet.
I watch her eyes.
“What I’m about to show you isn’t meant to scare you,” I say. “It’s meant to inform you. To give you the truth, not shadows.”
Wren’s breath trembles. Not enough to be visible. Enough that all three of us hear it.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I rotate the screen.
The still image fills the room.
A man in a dark coat.
Standing in Section 118.
Facing the bench.
Still as carved stone.
Wren’s hand flies to her mouth.
She stares. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
I can’t tell if she’s remembering something or recognizing it. But the color drains from her face in a way that makes every instinct in me surge forward.
Finn reaches for her hand instantly.
Atlas steps forward like he’s about to tear the table in half.
I move the phone back slightly—not hiding it, but giving her a breath of space.
“It’s not confirmed,” I say softly. “Ops ran gait mapping, height comparison, movement analysis. It’s not enough for a full ID.”
She finally blinks. “But... it’s him.”
Her voice—raw, thin—unravels something under my sternum.
“Wren,” I say. “It’s a partial match.”
She shakes her head once, small. “I know how he stands. I know how he watches.”
Finn curses under his breath. Atlas’s jaw ticks hard enough I hear the grind of his teeth.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, leveling my voice.
“I need you to hear everything I’m about to say.”
She turns her eyes to me—wet, terrified, determined.
“First,” I say, “you did nothing wrong.”
Her breath stutters.
“Second,” I continue, steady, controlled, “this doesn’t mean he’s gotten close. This doesn’t mean he’s found your address. It only means he might have been at the game. It’s one sighting in a packed arena.”
Finn squeezes her hand. “And we’re not letting him get any closer.”
Atlas moves to her other side. “He won’t touch you.”
Her eyes flick to him, then to Finn, then back to me.
“What do we do?” she asks, voice trembling.
“We tighten everything,” I say. “Security. Movement. Routine. You won’t walk anywhere alone—not to your car, not into the rink, not to your building.”
She swallows. “Last night I slept. And now—”
“And now you will again,” I say, firm enough that she looks up fast.
Her eyes shine.
“We’re adjusting,” I add. “Not retreating.”
Atlas nods once. “He wants you scared. Don’t give him that.”
Finn’s knee bumps hers softly. “We’re here. All of us.”
Wren’s throat closes for a moment. She presses a hand to her sternum, breathing carefully, like she’s not sure if the air is allowed to stay in her lungs.
“I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate that he’s still—”
“You’re allowed to hate it,” I say quietly. “You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling right now.”
Her eyes fill. She wipes at one with the back of her hand, embarrassed.
“Don’t,” Atlas murmurs, kneeling beside her. “Don’t hide that.”
Finn’s voice is soft. “Let us help.”
Her voice breaks. “I don’t want you in danger.”
This time, all three of us respond at once.
Finn: “We don’t care.”
Atlas: “He’s not a threat to us.”
Me: “You’re our priority.”
Wren lets out a sound—half-sob, half-breath—and tries to cover her face with her hands.
